


Memory (Is a Vital Process)

by Rowantreeisme



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, Pain, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 16:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13485435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rowantreeisme/pseuds/Rowantreeisme
Summary: Death: The permanent ending of one or more vital processes.AKA the angsty as all hell amnesia fic that absolutely no one asked for. Enjoy.





	Memory (Is a Vital Process)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuperstringSymphony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperstringSymphony/gifts).



> For more details around the character death tag, and why I've felt it necessary to use it, please check the end notes. Thank you all for reading!  
> If you think I've missed a tag, please let me know.

He woke up in a white room, wearing white clothes, in a clean, white bed. There was a man in a white suit sitting beside him.

He cleared his throat, and winced at the scratchy feeling. The man looked up at him, and smiled when he saw that he was awake, something victorious in his expression. “Uh,” He tried, coughed, tried again, licked his chapped lips, “I- Who am I? Do I know you?” He asked, tried to stay calm.

The man beamed at him, teeth very, very white. “Your name is Tony Stark.” He said, “You’ve been in an accident, that’s why you don’t remember anything. I’m your friend, my name is John.” He said, and Tony — that was his name, Tony, — nodded mostly on instinct. There was something twinging in his chest, and he looked down, nearly jolting back in surprise when he saw the glowing metal _thing_ in his chest, automatically raised a hand to… he didn’t know, touch it, or something, before John stopped him. “Don’t worry about that.” He told Tony, “It’s normal. It won’t hurt you.”

“Wha-” Tony tried to say, lowered his hand again, but his mouth was dry, gritty, like he’d swallowed a handful of sand. He knew what that tasted like, somehow. He swallowed, tried again. “Water?” He asked, not trusting his voice with anything else.

John beamed at him, and nodded. “Of course, of course. Just stay put, I will be right back.” He said, voice smooth and flat, like polished marble, and got up from beside the bed, hurting over to the door and out of it, shooting Tony one last look before the door clicked shut.

There was a mirror on the side table, and Tony picked it up, squinted at his face, tried to remember if he’d seen it before, came up blank.

Tony sat up, looked around, tried to see if there was anything at all that he remembered about this place. There wasn’t. Then again, he didn’t recognize himself, either, didn’t recognize his face in a mirror or his hands in front of them, didn’t recognize his friend.

He looked at his hands, turned them over, traced over one of the many tiny and not-so-tiny scars. He’d earned them, somehow. From what, he didn’t know. Couldn’t know.

The man had said he’d been in an accident, that he’d hit his head. That the fact that he couldn’t remember anything before waking up in this room was from that.

Maybe the scars were from that. They looked like maybe some of them could be burns, or old cuts, but the calluses on his fingers and palms said otherwise. He didn’t know what the thin, silvery, zig-zagging lines that started at his wrists and crawled up his arms, disappearing beneath his shirt, were from.

They were probably important, but Tony couldn’t care about more than a muted curiosity. It was like looking at a stranger’s body, seeing evidence of something that didn’t, couldn’t, affect him.

There was also the light, shining through his shirt, which the man had told him was normal, was important, was something he needed, but he could feel the numbness of the scar tissue around it. Whatever it was, it wasn’t natural.

He wondered what he’d done to earn them, all of the scars. If it had been good, If it had been bad.

If they’d been from a fight.

If he’d won.

There was a burst of static in his ear, and he jumped on instinct, spinning around to find the source.

 _“-Sir-”_ The voice was British, crackling badly in between the static, and Tony whirled around for the source again, but he couldn’t figure out where it was coming from, it sounded like it was right next to him but there was _no one there-_

 _“Sir, Tony-”_ The voice said again, and it was coming from his ear, like-

Tony raised his hands, feeling around his ear and jaw until he felt it, a tiny chip barely a centimetre across, settled just under his ear, on top of his jaw. He tried to pull on it, get it _off_ , and winced as it pulled on the skin there, panic rising like a wave because the thing was _attached_ to him and this person knew his name and he was breathing like he couldn’t, like he couldn’t get enough air, and tried to get his fingernails under the little chip. _“-please do not- Sir! Do not-”_ The voice was saying, and Tony needed to get it _out_ get it out of his _head_ stop it _talking_ -

But his nails weren’t long enough, blunted and dull and _useless_ and the thing was staying right where it is, apparently, and the voice was starting a count, up, and up, and repeat, in, and out. Breathing. It was for breathing, and his lungs remembered enough to breath with the count. “Who- who _are_ you?”

“My name is JARVIS.” The voice — JARVIS — answered, and he sounded impossibly sad, impossibly tired, like he’d answered this question before. “I am an artificial intelligence that you created.”

At the same time that Tony was trying to process that, the fact that he’d built an AI, a robot, a _person_ , something flickered over his right eye, the same side that the chip was on, bright and blue, and he blinked wildly, trying to clear his vision.

“Apologies, sir, but we do not have much time.” JARVIS told him, voice clearer with every word, and the flickering over his eye resolved itself into words, pictures, images on a screen that now that he was feeling for it, seemed to be some sort of lens. Pictures flashed across his vision, files and raw data and pictures, news clippings and reports, just slow enough that he could read all of it.

“Your name is Anthony Edward Stark,” JARVIS said, and there was a scan of a faded newspaper in his vision, a kid who he supposed was him, crouching in front of a robot, faded too fast for him to take in the details, and then another, and another, old photos fading into what looked like security footage, grainy but getting less so as years and years and _years_ went by, watched himself grow up in the span of minutes, until the fast slide of information stopped, settling on what looked like a paused recording. “The man who was here is lying to you. He is not your friend. He has stolen your memory.”

Tony was reeling, half-listening to what JARVIS was telling him, half trying to process the fact that he was a _superhero_ , that he’d been kidnapped, that people had tech that could erase memories.

He knew where all his scars had come from now.

He didn’t know if that was a good thing.

JARVIS was telling him that he had to get out, drawing a map out in front of him, everything he knew about the facility where Tony was being kept, and Tony was barely listening. “How many times.” He asked, hands fisted on top of his legs, staring straight ahead. “How- how many times has he done this?”

JARVIS stopped, and Tony held his breath.

“How many times have we failed?” He whispered.

“We have _not_ failed.” JARVIS replied without missing a beat, “You are still here, and despite our enemies wishes, you are still _you_ .” And that was a lie, a bald, fat, _lie_ , because the only reason Tony knew his _name_ was because someone else had told it to him, he _wasn’t_ himself, not at all. “You will get out of this.”

It was a promise, a vow, but Tony, even without his memories, knew an empty hope when he heard them. He nodded, stood up.

“I will not leave you.” JARVIS said again, and that, Tony knew was a promise he was going to keep. He crept to the door, cautious despite being alone, and to his surprise, it pushed open easily, not even locked.

JARVIS whispered directions as he moved, left on this hallway and right on this one, and Tony was glad for the anchor in his voice, because the white-on-white of the whole facility was rubbing him the wrong way. It was too bright, too cold, too clinical, so sterile in it’s endless rows of identical hallways and doors and maze-like layout, bright and open but Tony still felt trapped.

Tony stepped around a corner, into another white hallway, exactly the same as the other ones. Empty, and blank, and suffocating, and he made it about three steps down before something hit his neck, _hard_ , and he was forced into a headlock, arms pinned and the man’s forearm hard over his throat.

“You dirty fucking _cheater_ .” He said, right into Tony’s ear, and Tony flinched, tried to jerk away. “Do you _really_ think I’d let you keep _doing_ this?” You think-“

Tony’s head connected with the bottom of his jaw with an audible crunch, and the second he was free he bolted, down the halls, around the corner following JARVIS’s directions to what he hoped was freedom.

“You piece of _shit_!” John snarled, the voice crackling over the PA system, thick and choked, swallowing audibly, and tony hoped that he’d made the asshole bite his tongue off.

Tony felt victorious for one single measly second, until John _laughed._ “It doesn't matter, anyway. I know the ace up your sleeve, now. I know how to _win_.” He said, and Tony’s heart was beating right out of chest as he continued. “I know your hand. I know your play. And I have better cards than you.”

He was gloating. He was gloating and he wasn’t running after Tony, there were no visible alarms sounding, there was _nothing_ to suggest that this was anything but a game to him.

Because, Tony thought grimly, checking around corners with a paranoid that seemed burned into his bones, it was. To this man, it was a game, and Tony didn’t even know what he’d bet. “You aren’t going to get out, Stark!” John called again, the voice coming from everywhere and nowhere and made Tony jump despite of himself. “You’re going to _lose_.” John paused, and the dramatic flair might have been funny if Tony hadn’t been scared out of his goddamn mind. “And I am going to find out just how much of your pet AI is made of memories.” John finished, and suddenly, Tony didn’t think he’d really been terrified before at all.

Tony’s blood went cold, and he froze. “Can he do that?” He whispered frantically, looking for somewhere to run too. Somewhere to hide.

JARVIS was silent just a second too long for comfort. “Theoretically…”

“Shit.” Tony swore, looking around for something, for anything to help, “He can, can’t he? How- did you _know_ this!?”

“ _Theoretically_ ,” JARVIS repeated, “He needs access to my code.”

Tony brought a hand to the chip behind his ear. “He _has_ it.” He whispered. “If he gets me, _he has it_ , you have to _leave.”_

“I will _not.”_ JARVIS responded, and he almost sounded offended at the request, at the suggestion that he would.

Tony could hear footsteps, slow and unhurried, echoing through the corridor, and he started backing away. “You _have_ to.” He repeated, turned and started to run as the steps got closer, “He’ll kill you and _you have to go_.”

“I will not be able to find you again. Not in time.” JARVIS said. “I will not risk that. I will not risk _you_.”

Tony was breathing too fast to give a proper response, just shook his head, trying to blink the blurriness out of his eyes. He skidded to a halt in a dead-end, skidded on his feet for a second. “No.” He said, backed away from the wall, from the feeling of being trapped, spun to run again and froze when John turned the corner, still waking like he had all the time in the world. “No no no no you have to _leave_.”

And he was begging now, doing anything he thought he could to get the AI to leave, to save himself, while John stalked closer. He braced himself to charge, to fight, because this was one man and JARVIS had said that he’d been a fighter, so he must still have some instincts left, maybe, he could take him _down_ and then they’d have all the time in the world to get out, and then 4 more men, wearing tactical jackets and helmets and carrying batons, turned the corner and fell into step beside John.

Tony’s blood went cold. He couldn’t win this, there were 5 of them and he couldn’t fight them all, he wasn’t going to win, and his voice was shaking when he spoke. “I made you, right?” Tony said, and he was being backed into a corner, helpless and terrified and he didn’t want to do this alone, but he wanted JARVIS hurt even less. “I made you, so I can order you to go, right?” Desperation choked his words, and he took a breath. “So go. _Leave_. Fuck, just-“

JARVIS sounded far too smug when he responded. “Not without an override code, you cannot. I _will_ not leave you, and _you cannot make me_.”

“No.” Tony repeated, hopeless denial tinged with steel, took another useless step back, and blinked the digital contact lense out of his eye, let it fall to the floor, and crushed it with a tiny bout of sparks. “Leave. Just, _go._ ” Tony said again, and this time, it was a warning.

There was a rush of annoyed static through the chip. “That was idiotic.” JARVIS told him, and Tony laughed, shrill and sharp and a little hysterical.

“You haven’t seen anything yet.” Tony replied, braced himself and eyed the knife he could see strapped to one of the guard's legs.

“You know I will not leave you willingly.” JARVIS said, warning in his tone.

Tony laughed, hiccuped on something he wouldn’t let be a sob. “Wasn’t planning on it, no.” He said, kept his eyes on the knife, resolutely did not look at the stupid smug expression on John’s face, at the slim white device he was flipping around in his hand, tried not to think about the reason they were approaching so goddamn slowly.

He was going to go down. He was going to lose, and he was going to forget, again, but like _hell_ was he going to go down without a fight. Like _hell_ he wasn’t going to do all he could to stop them from touching JARVIS.

He had a plan, a shitty, idiotic plan, that at the very _best_ was going to get him killed, but, he had the feeling he’d done worse for less.

“Alright.” He said, mostly to himself, tried to stop panicking, tried to get into a headspace where he could fight. Where he could handle this, took a shaky breath.

And then he launched himself at the nearest guard, going for the knife, and he could tell that he’d surprised them all because the guard was bowled over by his weight, the others stepped back automatically and John was barking orders but he couldn’t quite make sense of them, of JARVIS, frantic in his ear, everything was too bright and too loud and the knife was in his hand and he raised it, aimed it, jabbed and barely nicked the skin behind his ear before someone grabbed his arm with a yell and twisted, hard, knocking the knife out of his hand with a clatter, his arms wrenched behind his back as he was forced to his knees.

He’d hit, though, he could feel the sting of the cut and the blood crawling down behind his ear, hot and sticky and disgusting, but that wasn’t what was making his breath come short. No, that was JARVIS, trying to calm him down, still in his ear and still _here_ and still terribly, horribly, venerable.

He’d failed. He’d failed and he’d missed his chance and JARVIS was going to die, it didn’t _matter_ that he didn’t really know him, that he couldn’t remember creating him, that he couldn’t remember anything, he was still fighting with everything he had, trying in vain to keep his ear pressed to his shoulder, keep the chip out of reach, twisting and tugging for all he was worth.

He couldn’t see. It was too bright, white on white on white, white combat suits and white floors and white walls, all blurred together into nothing, and he was still half curled up on himself, protecting the chip, protecting the access to JARVIS that they still _had_ because he wasn’t going, he wasn’t leaving, he was taking, quiet reassurance that wasn’t reassuring at _all_ because Tony was going to have to watch him _die_ and-

“Don’t, fuck, don’t do this, please, I’ll- _please.”_ He was saying, begging, and he didn’t know if _who_ he was asking, the man with his device standing smugly over Tony, or JARVIS, still a constant presence in his ear, and the four guards were still holding him, waiting for more orders. Tony’s voice broke. “Please don’t do this.”

The man’s lip curled up in a sneer. “Fucking _pathetic_.” He said, and gestured at one of the guards, who tried to wrench his head up, at the same time Tony braced for the action, rolled with the tug instead of against it, crashed full-body into one of the other guards, who managed to get him still again, but his ear was still in his shoulder.

That, he took as a victory.

“The _hell_ are you waiting for?” The man barked, “I can’t do shit with his head like that, what am I even paying you for?”

“You said-“ One of the guards, the one holding Tony’s arms with some degree of effort, started, but John cut him off.

“I said not to _break_ him.” John said, slowly, like he was explaining this to kindergarteners, and then smiled, sharp and savage and Tony was well and truly packing now, only JARVIS in his ear preventing him from straight-up passing out, keeping his breathing somewhere near the realm of normal.

JARVIS was here, and Tony hated that he was glad for that.

The man smiled, and Tony started struggling with renewed effort, snarling and trying to kick at the guards holding him. “I said not to break him.” John repeated, “But, we are telling him he was in an _accident_ . Some… _damage_ is to be expected.”

Tony got one of his arms free, but that was a mistake, that was a massive fucking mistake, because they’d _let_ it go, they’d dropped his right arm and he got one measly punch in before they’d grabbed it again, pulling it straight out sideways, and Tony was braced, for _something_ , something bad, instincts and forgotten experience telling him that much, that this would not be pleasant.

He was braced, but the heavy boot all but snapping his forearm in half sent him reeling, biting his tongue so hard he tasted blood, curling in on himself on instinct, some feral part of him screaming to protect his damaged arm, but he didn’t scream. He didn’t scream, wouldn’t give them the satisfaction, wouldn’t give them _anything-_

They kicked him in the stomach, and he would’ve fallen over, sucking in a pained breath, blinking away the blurriness in his eyes, tried to swallow down the lump in his throat.

Someone grabbed his hair, and he bit back a shout as his head was wrenched backwards, exposing the chip, exposing _JARVIS._ “Please go.” Tony whispered, barely a breath of sound, quiet enough that his voice didn’t break in the middle. “Please-”

John glared at him, disgust written all over his face, and fiddled with something on his device. “Pathetic.” He repeated. “Fucking crying. I thought better of you, Stark. Hold him.” He barked, and then his head was wrenched to the side, despite how he trashed and struggled and even tried to bite one of the guards holding him, all to no avail, and he couldn’t see through the tears, bright blurred shapes and nothing else, and he realized far too late that JARVIS was talking to him.

“Thank you for creating me. Thank you for teaching me. Thank you-” JARVIS was saying, sombre and quiet and apologetic, like _he_ was the sorry one, like he was the one that _had_ to apologize, as if he wasn’t saying his last fucking words because Tony hadn’t been _good_ enough-

Tony couldn’t control the lump in his throat, and it broke in a sob. “There’s still time, you can still go, you can still-”

“I will not leave you,” JARVIS said, so gently it hurt, “I refuse. I will _not_ leave you alone. Not again.” JARVIS said, and Tony knew that there were backups, he _knew_ that if he could get out, get free, get his mind back, he could fix him, but his eyes still stung and his throat still closed up and he still couldn’t stop from crying.

“I’m sorry,” He said, a rushed whisper, talked right over JARVIS trying to tell him wrong, “I’m sorry that you’re here i’m sorry you’re going to die with me I’m sorry that I couldn’t do _anything_ I’m sorry I forgot-”

JARVIS interrupted him smoothly. “I forgive you. This was my choice. This was my decision, and I will never be able to tell you just how much I appreciate that you gave me the ability to make it.”

The device pressed hard against the side of his head, and Tony squeezed his eyes shut.

“And, above all,” JARVIS said, an instant before the device clicked on, filling his ears with a sub-audible humming, “Thank you for being my father.”

And then there was only static, and then nothing at all, not even the quiet buzzing that Tony hadn’t been aware was coming from the chip, hadn’t been aware was calming him down as a subconscious reminder that _someone_ was here with him.

Tony didn’t look up, even when he heard John changing the settings on the gun, kept his eyes closed tight and JARVIS’s last words on his lips, repeating them like a mantra as if he could etch them into his bones if he tried hard enough, deep enough that they couldn’t be taken from him.

The device pressed against his forehead, and he didn’t look up. He had a feeling he’d been here before, on the ground with a gun against his head, his life in the hands of someone who despised him. It clicked on, and Tony kept muttering right up until the end, kept JARVIS in his mind, clutched what memories he had of him tight to his chest as if that would help.

His last thought was _I’m so sorry_ , and then he thought no more.

  


He woke up in a white room, wearing white clothes, in a clean, white bed. His arm was in a cast, and there was a man in a white suit sitting beside him.

He cleared his throat, and winced at the scratchy feeling. The man looked up at him, and smiled when he saw that he was awake, something victorious in his expression. “Uh,” He tried, coughed, tried again, blinked at the headache pounding away inside his skull, “I- Who am I? Do I know you?” He asked, tried to stay calm. There was an itchy spot behind his ear, and he tried to rub it on the pillow.

The man beamed at him, teeth very, very white. “Your name is Tony Stark.” He said, and smiled even wider, “And you make weapons.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I did use the "major character death" tag. this is for two-fold reasons. 1. JARVIS IS A MAJOR CHARACTER YOU CANT TAKE THIS FROM ME and 2. Without memories, without any of the things that make you who you are, are you really you? For this fic, I'm saying no. Tony isn't tony without his memories.


End file.
